Braco (6 page)

TUESDAY:
ATIF STAVIC

ATIF STARED AT
the blood-red disk setting through a pillar of smoke. The air had started to chill and he rubbed his arms, his gaze moving to the field of corn behind the factories in Potocari. People wandered through the stalks, stripping the plants bare. Others swarmed the houses sitting on the edge of the field, looting anything they could eat or sell. Artillery echoed in the hills, too distant to be a threat. The steep hills and deep valleys could make the sound carry a very long way.

Or conceal it altogether.

Atif turned away and took a step closer to the water spigot. The woman next in line didn't have a container. She cupped her hands under the water, gulped down mouthfuls, and then gave water to her little boy to drink. Afterwards, she dunked his head under the water and soaked a towel. Someone tapped on Atif's shoulder. He turned; a young woman held up a paper bag.

“I need a container,” she said.

She opened the bag to reveal a large chunk of red meat. Atif stared at enough calories to feed his family for two days.

“I can't,” he said, his mouth watering. “I'm getting water for six people.”

The woman frowned and walked on without a word. She moved along the line until an old man gave up a small bottle for the beef.

How would he cook it?

A woman behind Atif grumbled. He turned back to find the spigot free. Sliding his container under the stream, he waited until it overflowed and then capped it. When he picked it up, he was surprised at his strength after so many days in hospital. He couldn't remember if he had eaten.

Mama must have made me eat something.

Getting food over the last few months had not been as difficult as he expected. The Bosnian army had rejected his application, telling Atif he was too young to join and that, without a weapon, he would be useless to them anyway. Instead, they hired him as a courier and Atif had spent the spring and summer carrying messages, food, and ammunition to the trenches closest to town. They paid him with cigarettes and Deutsche Marks and enough food to ensure he would have the strength to make the runs every day. Now he had the strength to take care of his family.

“You're a man now, Atif,” his father had told him on a late summer day three years before. “While I'm gone, it's up to you to take care of them. Can you do that?”

Atif had stood tall before his father and accepted the responsibility. Three months into the war, they were still in the woods, their food supply dwindling. Any hope the war would be short had vanished. His father said they had to do something before the winter set in. He decided to chance a walk into town to get news and to see if he could find someone to smuggle them to Srebrenica or Tuzla.

Atif remained standing next to his mother as his father walked into the darkness. His father returned before dawn. Atif had hidden his shame; he had done nothing except sleep.

“They slept in peace, Atif. You did a good job.”

Six days later, they were in the back of a VW heading for Srebrenica.

So long ago.

Atif dragged the water container through the ocean of refugees, their hands and feet lapping at him like waves against a boat. He stopped to rest and looked around. Dutch peacekeepers were handing out towels and bottles of water. People pleaded for food.

“Soon,” the peacekeepers replied to every inquiry.

Atif studied every peacekeeper he saw but none were familiar. Some of the people in the line-up had told them the Dutch were evacuating their remote observation posts. One person said that some of the Dutch had been taken hostage. From the southern posts, another had added. Jac had been sent to a post called Romeo near Jaglici in the north. Atif wondered if he was still there or back in Potocari.

He dragged the container towards the bus depot where the peacekeepers had set up a medical tent. People lined up for help. Dutch medics spoke to them through translators. Atif pulled the container through the line of people and made his way to the side of the wrecked bus. His mother was tucking a blanket under Tihana's head as his sister slept in Lejla's lap. Ina came to his side and helped him the last few steps. They laid the container down next to Adila and his mother stood, giving him a quick hug and kiss.

“I was beginning to worry,” she said, “but someone said the line was long. Did you have any problems?”

“No, Mama.”

Atif stepped over his sleeping sister and sat next to his mother, surprised to find a pot sitting on top of a small camp stove next to Ina.

“We borrowed it.” She pointed to the far end of the bus where an older man sat with his wife and daughter. “I promised them all the water left in the pot and half dozen boiled potatoes.”

Atif helped his mother pour the water and light the stove. They dropped twelve potatoes into the pot and waited for them to boil. Hungry eyes in the crowd watched their every move.

“Maybe we should boil them all,” Atif said.

His mother followed his gaze.

“We don't know how long we're going to be here,” she whispered. “We don't know if the Dutch have any food to give out and we don't know how long before they can get the trucks here to get us out. We could be here for days.”

“Don't worry about them, Atif,” Ina said. “There's plenty of water. People can last a long time without food as long as they have water.”

Atif ate the half-cooked potato with his back to the crowd.

His mother returned the pot to the family with six potatoes in the water. Lejla woke Tihana; she ate only after Lejla pretended to feed the toy soldier. Atif's mother peeled the skin from her own potato and gave it to Tihana. She pulled one of the water bottles from Atif's pack and then dug into her own pack, taking out a small plastic bag containing the last of their salt supply.

Salt had been a rare commodity in Srebrenica. The humanitarian convoys seldom brought salt into the town; the residents had to buy what they could off the black market. The peacekeepers told Atif the Serbs usually stripped the convoys of salt destined for the town. Atif didn't understand why until Ina told him the lack of natural iodine in the area meant an increase in the risk for diseases like goiter. Some people found clumps of road salt and boiled it to use in place of table salt, but Ina said they were wasting their time. Road salt contained no iodine.

As time went on, it became harder to find salt, even on the black market. Atif had lucked into the small bag one day when he'd brought up the army's supplies. He'd traded a soldier three cigarettes for the bag of salt and considered it a steal.

His mother took several pinches, mixed it with the water, and passed it around. When they finished, Atif offered to refill the containers.

“We should wait till morning,” his mother said. “It'll be dark soon.”

“That's okay,” Atif replied. “I know the way. And there won't be as many people there this time.”

His mother glanced at Ina.

“Perhaps he should,” Ina said. “It's better than facing the crowds in the morning when it's hot.”

“Okay,” his mother said. “But don't go near any of the rivers. We don't know where the mines are around here.”

Atif kissed her and then emptied the water from the large container into the smaller ones. He left the bus and made his way through the crowd. A woman tried to calm a screeching infant. Two women held each other, crying. Another woman held her young daughter's hand as the girl urinated next to their spot. An older woman vomited. Two peacekeepers carried a woman in labour to the medical tent. A blanket was held up, offered in exchange for food. Atif said no and kept walking.

He stopped and stared at a boy. The blond hair and pale blue shirt were familiar. Atif walked towards the boy and then hesitated. He closed his eyes tight and saw Dani's face, the little boy's eyes staring at him from behind the car.

A flash, brilliant white.

Darkness.

Atif opened his eyes.

“It can't be,” he whispered to himself. He stepped forward and looked down.

“Dani?”

The boy turned and looked up.

“Who?”

Atif turned away. Ahead of him another blond boy sat with his back to him. He blinked, but the boy remained. Atif walked towards the boy and touched him on the shoulder. A stranger's eyes peered up.

“Sorry,” Atif said

He turned away, took two steps, and then reached out to steady himself against a tree. His head spun as he lowered himself to the ground. He squeezed his eyes shut, rocking back and forth.

It's not happening, he told himself. Just tricks. The mind plays tricks. Remember? The soldiers used to say that.

Someone touched his shoulder. Atif flinched.

“Are you okay?” the woman sitting next to him asked. She was rocking a baby in her arms.

“Yes,” Atif replied. He pointed to the bandage on his temple. “I just have a headache.”

“Sorry. Are you going to get water?”

Atif nodded. The woman held up a baby bottle.

“Could you? Please. I have nothing to give you.”

“That's okay.” He took the bottle.

“Thank you.”

Atif got to his feet and looked around. A sea of women, children, and old men surrounded him.

Women, children, and old men?

For the first time since he'd arrived in Potocari, Atif took a close look at the crowd. Almost every face was female. The few male faces were very old or very young. He could see no young men, no older boys. His heart vibrated in his chest as he walked towards the water line, searching for another young male face.

Have they all gone? Am I the only one left? They couldn't have all been missing their documentation.

His eye shifted from face to face until they fell on the features of a middle-aged man sitting with his wife and two young children. Then another young man. And a teenage boy. Atif drew in a long breath of relief and took his place in the water line. But the anxiety remained.

What is going to happen to us?

He knew the entire population would have to leave, most likely for Tuzla. He imagined the blue helmets trying to put together a convoy of trucks and buses.
But will the Chetniks let them in?

The sun had sunk below the horizon and the moon had risen in the southeast before Atif had his turn at the water spigot. He filled the containers and returned the baby bottle to the woman. When he got back to the bus, the twins were asleep with Tihana between them. Ina was talking with the man who had lent them the pot.

“Any problems?” his mother asked.

Atif shook his head and sat down next to her.

“Have you heard anything? Do they know what's going to happen?”

“Nothing yet,” she replied. “The Dutch must be working on something.”

“Everyone is talking, passing information around,” Atif said, pointing towards the water line. “Someone said the Chetniks have forty thousand troops coming this way.”

“I don't believe that.”

“What if it's true?”

“Even if it is true, they won't hurt us. They could have shelled us on the road this afternoon and they didn't. In fact, they went out of their way not to shell us. They know if they start hurting us, the planes will attack. They don't want to risk that.”

“Then why did the men go into the woods?”

“I don't know, Atif. Maybe they didn't want to take the chance.”

Atif wanted to ask more questions but resisted. She didn't know the answers any more than he did. He sat in silence for a long time, watching. A woman force fed a fussy child. An old man washed the stump of his amputated leg. A family prayed.

“Is Tata dead?”

“What?”

“I mean is there something you know that you're not telling me?”

“No. Absolutely not.” She laid a hand on his shoulder. “You were there when the soldier came to the door. He said they found no bodies. He said he was sure the snowstorm took them by surprise and they just got stuck somewhere.”

“That was three months ago. Why isn't he back?”

“They were probably forced to go elsewhere. They might be in Zepa or Tuzla. One soldier said they might have crossed the Drina into Serbia and simply can't get word back to us.”

Atif stared straight ahead. His chest ached as he tried to haul in a full breath.

“If Tata were here, do you think he would have gone with the men?”

“Well, he knows the way. I'm sure they would have used him to lead a group.”

“Would he have taken me?”

“I don't know.” She smiled. “Do you remember the first time you went into the woods alone?”

Atif returned the smile as the memory surfaced. He had been six-years old and had stayed in the woods behind their farm until dusk. After a lecture from his mother, Atif went to sleep but woke an hour later to find his father sitting on the edge of his bed.